


A Few Little Deaths

by orphan_account



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: I guess I should give a shoutout that they're both adults in this, M/M, tho sycamore is older, to clear up any potential confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s alright. I was warned.” The other man grins, and Sycamore is temporarily lost, once more.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t.” He says, his face flushing belatedly as the words reach his own ears. It’s impossible to miss the way that it causes Lysandre to smile at him more broadly, nearly predatory. The deep bass of his voice wraps around one word that sends a small thrill up the professor’s spine.</p>
<p>“Good.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Few Little Deaths

He’s at his most charming when he wants something.

That is the first thing that Augustine Sycamore notices.

Well, not the first thing, strictly speaking. Strictly speaking, the first thing, the very first, that Sycamore notices is that his newest understudy is very tall - he practically towers over Sycamore, taller by a full foot at least. The second is that his lips split easily and pleasantly over the whitest teeth he’s ever seen in his life and straight into a perfect grin. The first time they meet, Lysandre shakes his hand heartily and Sycamore only lets him, a little dazed as he wonders exactly how much the other man has had to practice that selfsame grin in front of the mirror to achieve equal parts handsomeness and invitation.

Both these things come before what later seems obvious, the flame-red hair that spikes out in every direction, looking both wild and tamed, somehow; the blue eyes that shine even when narrowed with calculation; the sharply tailored clothing that might look like funeral attire were it not for little pops of red here and there; the size and heft of the hand that easily engulfs and maneuvers his own. No, Augustine’s eyes are fixed to that mouth, and to that smile, and it isn’t for another few seconds that he realizes it’s moving, forming what takes him even longer to realize are words. A question. His name. His title-

“Professor?”

“Oh? Sorry. Must’ve spaced out there for a second.” Sycamore apologizes, manually forcing himself to grip Lysandre’s hand and shake it in turn, their fingers breaking in the awkward separation of shared contact gone too long. Never mind that Lysandre is wearing gloves.

“That’s alright. I was warned.” The other man grins, and Sycamore is temporarily lost, once more.

“I wasn’t.” He says, his face flushing belatedly as the words reach his own ears. It’s impossible to miss the way that it causes Lysandre to smile at him more broadly, nearly predatory. The deep bass of his voice wraps around one word that sends a small thrill up the professor’s spine.

“Good.” 

-

As it happens, Lysandre isn’t only charismatic, but deeply passionate. In just about every sense of the word.

It isn’t any of Augustine’s business, but he can’t help but wonder where the excitable, nearly childlike enthusiasm of his assistant goes when he leaves the labs. It’s as though when he sheds the white cotton coat, he sheds the side of himself that smiles and laughs, the side that gently brushes his fingertips over the cheek of a fennekin or takes down notes in fluid, flowery scrawls. It’s as though he loses the part of himself that can stare at the professor for hours on end of lecture, eyes bright and mind alight with a thousand theories and questions. 

And it isn’t jealousy of any sort, no; surely, that’s not what he can call the feeling when he happens upon his understudy in his free time. Surely, it’s only something like awkwardness, and perhaps concern; like the feeling a father might have to see his son in public, amongst his friends. Surely, that is the reason why Sycamore finds his stomach turns when he sees Lysandre draped against any number of young ladies - and sometimes young men. Surely, that is the reason his chest clenches when he comes upon his understudy in any of the number of cafes in Lumiose, a circle of people his age staring at him with such earnest, impassioned expressions, nodding along to every word he says; Lysandre at their center, hands moving in a flurry, tongue fast and eyes ablaze as he meets each one of them in spirit and mind and heart, as they all lean in towards him and he leans towards them. As one touches his cheek, and he laughs and kisses their hand. As Sycamore watches people fall in love with him.

Surely, that’s just the consequence of dealing with the younger generation. Perhaps it’s a bit of self indulgent ennui, perhaps his mind hangs upon it as he grows older, more detached from the hustle and bustle of younger crowds.

Perhaps… Perhaps something else, perhaps the slight feeling that he isn’t needed as much as it would seem in the life of one of his assistants. They come and go, and certainly Augustine has never felt this way about any of that before, but… Perhaps it’s just age, paternal instinct finally overcoming his more sensible desire to give the young adults he’s responsible for some space.

And he manages to keep his distance too, for the most part. He tells himself, as he told himself when he first started taking on the duties of the professor of Lumiose City, that he wouldn’t interfere with the lives of those he was responsible for, except to nudge them along a good path. And pulling Lysandre out of those cafes, out of those crowds of adoring looks, out of the arms of lovers both potential and concrete, is definitely interfering. At least, he’s pretty sure it is.

But the line he’s drawn for himself become less hazy on the nights when he’s awake to see Lysandre come home to the lodging in the lab that’s provided for assistants. It becomes blurred when he can hear the soft clank of wine bottles and liquor bottles and god knows what else, fresh every other day, like clockwork. The edges of it bleed and bend in those rare, terrible moments when he, still awake and pouring over texts and data in his own room, hears a single, low keen of tear-soaked pain stretch around his senses, engulfing him until the tear of breath that follows it brings him back.

Whatever he does outside of the lab, Lysandre is always there the next morning, white lab coat over his shoulders and white teeth peeking out at Augustine in an inviting smile. He is always there, hanging on to every word that the professor says to him like so many others hang onto his own, though Augustine isn’t even half the showman about it. He shows up. Eager. Excited. 

Attentive.

And the knot in Sycamore’s stomach tightens ever more with how much he lets himself enjoy it.

-

In the course of a few months, Lysandre breaks Augustine down, brick by brick.

He does it in little ways, a dashing smile here, a wink there. There are big things, too, like the fact that Lysandre’s shirts are tight enough that they cling to his body, and when he takes them off to do some menial task like bathing the pokemon, Sycamore realizes he already knows and expects each and every curve of Lysandre’s chest and torso. 

Augustine’s self imposed rules about interference may keep him from demonstrating what he’ll now grudgingly admit might be jealousy, but it sure as hell doesn’t keep him from staring at Lysandre in all the moments when the other isn’t staring at him. It doesn’t keep him from noting the broad chest; the curve of well formed pectorals and biceps that can be seen even beneath a lab coat; the smooth, pale slice of abdomen, uninterrupted by overdeveloped abdominal muscles, sided by the smooth, deep cut bone beneath lush, snowy skin on his hips; the thick slopes of his thighs and calves in long scrawl of skin and muscle. It doesn’t help him to fend off the other’s flirting, the way that Lysandre leans in towards him, closer than the crowds of people Sycamore has seen him talk to but just distant enough not to be hanging on like he does to lovers. It doesn’t stop Augustine from feeling the heat of his body, from smelling the sharp spices of cologne and the strong, bitter coffee that the other man drinks religiously throughout the day.

It is no help at all, he notes with a certain frustration, against the thoughts that come to him in the wee hours of the morning, when he’s supposed to be processing data on mega evolution without anyone around to bother him. Instead, he finds himself leaned back in his chair, a reluctant hand sliding between his own legs as he imagines the heat and weight of Lysandre curled over him, pressing breathless, greedy kisses against his mouth.

It is the least help when he has to fend off the aftereffects the next day. The guilt accumulates and blossoms as Lysandre becomes more daring, as he invades Augustine’s space ever more. As his leaning turns to nudging, and his nudging turns to touching, and his touching turns to caressing. 

And Lysandre doesn’t drape himself over the professor’s shoulder like Sycamore has seen him do with so many others. Instead, his hand will move to brush one of the professor’s curls behind his ear, tracing the back of it, sliding down his neck before it settles on his shoulder. Lysandre never mentions it, what they’re talking about doesn’t change, and yet Augustine grows ever aware that there’s a charge growing between them, great enough that when another assistant or visitor comes upon them, deep in discussion and close, he feels a flush of shame rise on the back of his neck.

They last like that until one day, Lysandre slides his hand from the back of his neck to Sycamore’s jaw. The leather of his gloves is soft, but the skin of his hands when they’re bare - and they’re bare now - is softer. It’s only the gentlest suggestion when he moves Augustine’s jaw up, and yet the older man lets it happen, meets the blue fire boring into him.

Their mouths come together before Sycamore really knows what’s happening, and like the distant echo of his own words, nothing registers with him until it’s all done, and he realizes he’s still staring, mouth slightly open, heat flooding his neck and cheeks and ears.

“I always thought it was the teacher’s job to seduce the student in these sort of affairs.” Lysandre jokes, his breath heady.

It is not a statement that Augustine forgets.

-

“What are you doing here?”

Lysandre’s frame takes up the doorway, his features illuminated dimly by the singular lamp on in his apartment. Sycamore looks up from the book he’s borrowed, sitting beside the lamp, one leg crossed over the other. Reclining. At ease. As if he’s meant to be there, behind the door Lysandre has just unlocked.

“Waiting. And reading, besides.” He holds up the book, then closes it, tossing it effortlessly onto the low coffee table before him. “Am I unwelcome?”

It takes Lysandre a moment before one of those charming grins is manufactured again, and he shrugs off the surprise, walking into the room and pulling his own door shut behind him. “Not unwelcome. Unexpected, certainly… But… Always welcome.”

He’s only walking, but it always feels like he’s circling, a pyroar analyzing which leg to start on so it can take down its prey. He seems surprised when Sycamore doesn’t sink back from him, doesn’t pull away, even as Lysandre’s arms come to rest on either side of the armchair that Sycamore is sitting in, even when he presses one leg to balance against Sycamore’s.

“…To what do I owe the pleasure?” He breathes, his words polite, yet his tone anything but. Everything in him is hungry and restless and Sycamore is too used to the energy by now to be surprised by it. He lets Lysandre’s primal urges flood around him, presses back with his own even, perfectly inscrutable stare, grey eyes revealing some darker passion brewing deep inside of him.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said a few months ago.” He replies. “About my job being confidence in instructing you.”

“Oh?” Lysandre asks, and his lip curls in genuine amusement for a moment. Augustine is so small, and so very lighthearted most of the time. It’s hard to imagine him finding a way to take control of Lysandre; big, powerful Lysandre who has always been in charge of his conquests, romantic or otherwise.

But Augustine blinks and there’s a gravity in his eyes that makes Lysandre’s heart skip a beat, his hot blood running cold as adrenaline floods his system. 

“Are you up to it?” The professor asks him, his voice not more than a mild breath on Lysandre’s cheek as he leans forward. “You seem to have second thoughts.”

For what seems like the first time, it’s Lysandre’s turn to go rosy in the cheeks. The colour paints itself high up on his cheekbones, refined even in his embarrassment, but he hesitates, unsure of how to react now.

“Yes.” Lysandre breathes back, though it sounds as though it might be the last air from his lungs.

“Good.” Sycamore replies, one hand reaching up. His slender fingers work at the knot of Lysandre’s cravat, pulling him down by it into a slow, grinding kiss. They pick apart the silk at his throat, pulling it away, stroking the skin that feels so little exposure. It prickles beneath his touch, and he sucks on Lysandre’s lower lip as Lysandre tries to suck in a breath, a shiver moving through the larger man.

When they part, Augustine smiles and this time, he is the predator.

“Go get the little present I left on your table.” He commands, his voice the hiss of ice meeting fire.

“But-”

“Lysandre,” He purrs, grabbing the other man’s jaw far more roughly than even he anticipated, “It wasn’t a request.”

His understudy’s mouth opens, then closes, and Lysandre stands, unsure of himself. On the one hand, Sycamore doubts anyone has ever talked to him like that before. On the other hand, he’s absolutely sure from the bulge in Lysandre’s trousers that the other man is enjoying it immensely, in a way he’d probably never considered he would.

His figure goes still when he reaches the table, fingers closing around the object. Sycamore can see him turning it over, the soft pads of his fingers working over the textures of it before he straightens up and returns. But the posture is for naught when he glances at Sycamore again, his face flushing further, his expression faltering.

“Do you like it?” Sycamore asks, his chin settled on top of one palm.

Lysandre says nothing. He nods, too swift, embarrassed. 

Sycamore grins.

“Give it here, pet. Let me put it on you.” 

As if under some hypnosis, Lysandre moves, and as he gets closer, there’s no mistaking the prickling of his skin, his pupils blown out almost comically large, bright blue eyes made dark with attraction. Augustine gestures with one finger for him to kneel and he does, utterly rapt as he watches Sycamore unbuckle the collar and slide it from its circular form. 

His breath seems to catch in his throat, and he shivers when the cool leather slides around the column of his neck. The cold metal of the buckle and Augustine’s fingertips on his adam’s apple make him shiver again, more violently, and he groans when the collar is pulled tight enough to make swallowing noticeable. He finds that Augustine tracing the upper edge where skin meets leather circlet is nearly intolerable, and the distress must show on his face, because a hand comes to stroke his hair, soft.

“Shhh…It’s alright. You trust me to take care of you, don’t you?” Sycamore asks him, and the professor is filled with a certain kind of glee when Lysandre nods, still apparently unable to speak.

“Do you know what you want?” He asks, further, his hand brushing against the soft, hot skin of Lysandre’s cheek. One thumb traces the line of red and gold lashes at Lysandre’s eyes, and they flutter against the digit as he blinks, and lowers his gaze.

“…Whatever you want to… Do with me…” He swallows, and Sycamore grins, rising from his armchair. 

“Good.” The professor says, reaching up and unbuttoning his own shirt without removing his eyes from the man before him. “Straighten your back. Hands at your sides. Don’t move them.”

He makes a point of taking his time while he strips, taking joy in that every time he catches Lysandre looking at him, the other man quickly turns his eyes away, as though feeling ashamed for it. It sends a small thrill through the professor to know that all the desire that’s been brewing inside of him is brewing inside Lysandre now, the other man sure of his urges, but not of this new script.

“You really are beautiful.” He murmurs as he removes Lysandre’s shirt, his belt, unbuttons his trousers. One hand strokes from the collar down the center of him, lips curling as he hears Lysandre suck in a breath, not used to be put on display, to having the fine hair dusting his chest and abdomen trailed over with ghostly touches, not hard or hot enough to bring real satisfaction. “A perfect specimen…”

“I-” Lysandre begins, cut off by a sharp pinch, just beside his cock. 

“Ah, ah. You’ll speak when you’re spoken to, hm?” Sycamore tells him, leaning in to place a little kiss on Lysandre’s forehead. 

The effect, as predicted, is profound. Augustine can feel the waves of barely restrained lust as he carries on, as he retrieves the bottle of lubricant from his coat pocket and slides a generous amount over Lysandre’s cock, spreads more inside of himself, their bodies pressed close. Lysandre can’t see Sycamore’s fingers pumping in and out of himself, but he can certainly feel the way the professor’s cock twitches against his own abdomen, feels the occasional moans in their kisses. 

His hands shake, twitch up once or twice to force Sycamore down, to create some sort of greater friction between the two of them. He’s aching so badly, and Augustine knows it, keeps teasing him, letting him just get to the beginning of relief before slacking off again. But each time his hands leave the ground, somehow the professor knows immediately, and everything comes to a screeching halt.

By the time Sycamore is guiding Lysandre’s throbbing cock inside of him, slowly easing himself on to what, by all accounts, is a fairly sizable member, Lysandre’s body is shaking, and he feels it’s only the fingers wrapped around his collar, holding him still, that’s keeping him upright and in control of himself at all. He wants desperately to move his hips, but Sycamore is the one controlling the pace. Sycamore is the one bucking against him, fucking himself on Lysandre’s cock, agonizingly slow until his assistant starts to keen, completely unaware of how to stop himself.

There’s a conversation going between the two of them that he doesn’t understand, even speaking it fluently. He’s so unfamiliar with letting go of control, and yet he feels the raw pleasure of having it taken from him, the permission to speak only given when Lysandre is breathless and shaking and the only thing he can say is Sycamore’s name, again and again and again and again, a prayer and a plea both before he devolves into a primal scream against Augustine’s throat, his teeth bared against the flesh but not biting as he feels himself empty out into the tight, wet heat of his newest lover.

To be completely honest, he’s not sure when Sycamore comes. Sycamore, himself, isn’t really sure how far the time in between the two events is. It only occurs to him that he’s coming back from a bright light behind his eyes, and that his mouth is mashed against Lysandre and he is holding the other man’s head and rocking him, gently, still sitting squarely in his lap, impaled on his softening, over-sensitized cock. 

And Lysandre is making little keening noises, and it’s up to Sycamore to make soothing little noises in turn, to unbuckle his collar and stroke his hair, to slowly disentangle their bodies enough that he can help Lysandre from off the floor and towards his bed.

He had planned on a shower together, but not on Lysandre still trying to process the happening of it, and the shaking and tears that seem to be coming in earnest now override the uncomfortable feeling of come inside of him, or their shared preference for cleanliness. So instead, he removes the rest of Lysandre’s clothes and crawls into bed with him, he spreads his body against one half of the other man and wraps his arms around him tight.

“I’m s-sorry, I don’t know w-w-why -” He tries to stutter, sniffling, and Augustine kisses his cheeks, wiping the saline away with his lips.

“It’s okay.” He murmurs, and nothing more. Because it is. Because he is trying, with every fibre of his being, to communicate to Lysandre that he accepts it, that he accepts everything. That even if the other man falls apart, he will be there, arms stretched open, to try and hold him together. That he will be willing to give what none of the crowds or other lovers can.

And slowly, slowly, the tears stop, and the shaking stills, and warmth spreads between them. Slowly, comforting noises and keens dissipate into slow, lazy kisses as they re-entangle themselves. 

“Thank you.” Lysandre whispers against Sycamore’s hair.

Augustine only kisses him in answer.

-

“…It would mean a lot to me if you would wear it.” Lysandre says. He can be so serious now, Sycamore thinks, even as he stares at the parcel in his former student’s hands.

“Would it now?” He asks, taking it tentatively, eyeing the glossy black box, emblazoned with a single curl of stylized fire.

The suit inside is something he’s seen a few times before now, though in a somewhat different style. He’s heard of the team that Lysandre is forming, and the requirements for getting in. He knows their goals, or at least what Lysandre goes to great pains to make him believe their goals are.

“I’d get it dirty, you know. And it’s hardly expected for a researcher to look so fashionable.”

Lysandre smirks, and pulls down his cravat just a fraction, letting a sliver of silver and black leather peak through. “It’s hardly expected that my lover has me on a leash.”

“Collar.” Sycamore rolls his eyes. “But I suppose I understand. I could always wear the socks, if you’re so dead set on it.”

“How romantic.” Lysandre returns dryly. “But… I suppose it will have to do. As long as you promise to wear it for me, sometime.”

He smiles that old smile of his and tucks one of Augustine’s curls behind his ears, gone from serious to charming again. Sycamore wonders if it will ever get old to him. But he nods his head, indulgent.

“Just for you.” He agrees.

After all, Lysandre can be very charming when it comes to getting what he wants.


End file.
